Capsized and Resized:
The river shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, a long ribbon of light winding through the forest like liquid glass. It moved slowly around the bend, quiet and wide, undisturbed. The air hung heavy with summer—thick with the scent of pine sap, sun-warmed bark, and something faintly mineral carried in from the water. No cell service. No traffic noise. Just birdsong, breeze, and the hush of untouched wildness.
This wasn’t the kind of place you stumbled on. It was the kind you earned.
Lily stepped out of the SUV and stretched, arms reaching above her head in a languid arch. Her white tank top clung to her ribs, damp with sweat from the drive, pulled slightly by the shape of her breasts. Her shorts had ridden up high on her thighs, revealing a hint of muscle, soft golden skin, and the curve where leg met ass. She adjusted her sunglasses and took in the landscape—woods pressing in close, a narrow trail snaking down to the water.
“This is incredible,” she murmured, not to anyone in particular.
Jake was already halfway into the gear, efficient and upbeat. “If we set up before sunset, we’ll be golden,” he called, flashing his boyish, reliable grin. She smiled back—genuine, but muted. She loved him. She did. But at that moment, his checklist energy and obsession with ultralight cookware didn’t do much to stir anything below her collarbone.
And then the air shifted.
No sound, no movement—just that strange, unmistakable sense that someone was watching.
Marcus.
He stepped out of the second vehicle with a slow, deliberate ease, like his body never did anything it didn’t mean to. He rolled his shoulders once, stretching the fabric of his black shirt across a chest that could’ve been carved from stone. Cargo shorts hung low on his hips, the curve of his V dipping beneath the hem. His thighs—God—moved with a kind of weightless power, thick and solid beneath skin that caught the light like polished bronze.
Lily turned, not hurried. Just curious.
And then—there he was. Fully. In motion.
Jesus.
He was even larger than the photos Jake had shown her. Not just big—imposing. His skin was a rich, deep brown, smooth and sun-warmed, catching the light like polished onyx. He had that quiet, physical gravity certain men carried, like their bodies knew how to fill a space before they even spoke. The kind of presence you didn’t need to see twice to remember.
His face was still, unreadable, expression calm but far from vacant. And when his eyes passed over her—just once, just briefly—she felt it.
Not a leer.
Not an accident.
Just… notice.
Lily blinked. Her stomach tightened—not fear, not nerves, but something lower. A quickening. A soft throb that fluttered at the base of her spine.
Something in her shifted.
She exhaled slowly, and turned back toward the trees.
“Hey,” he said simply, dropping the pack to the ground with one hand. His voice was low—smooth, but measured. Like he rarely needed to raise it to be heard.
Lily turned. “Hi,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a touch more care than usual. “We finally meet.”
Marcus nodded once, a slow incline of his head. “Been meaning to for a while,” he said. “Jake talks about you.”
She tilted her head. “Good things, I hope?”
He smiled—just at the corner of his mouth. Not a full grin. Not enough to show teeth. Just enough to make it feel like the rest was waiting, just under the surface.
“Only good things.”
There was something about the way he said it—neutral on the surface, but warm underneath. Like maybe he knew more than he was letting on.
Before the silence could stretch, Jake appeared at Marcus’s side and clapped him on the back. “C’mon, man. Let’s get the kayaks to the water.”
Riley bounded out of the other SUV, vibrant as ever, her hair twisted into two messy buns, sunglasses perched crookedly on her nose. “You boys do the heavy lifting,” she declared, already grabbing a water bottle. “Lily and I are gonna go claim the good spot for the tents.”
“Deal,” Lily said quickly, already moving. Grateful—for the excuse. For the break in whatever invisible current had just passed between her and Marcus.
But her body hummed with it. That low, charged hum just beneath her skin.
It wasn’t just the way he looked at her—it was the way it landed. Like he could see more than she meant to show. Like he didn’t miss a thing.
She tried to ignore it.
Failed.
As they moved toward the riverside, weaving through trees and gear and light conversation, Lily found her gaze drifting—backward. Just a glance.
Marcus bent to lift one of the kayaks.
And there it was again.
His back shifted beneath the fabric of his shirt—broad, carved. His arms pulled with a fluid strength that looked effortless, but made the veins in his forearms stand out in sharp relief. The fabric stretched tight across his shoulders, then looser across his waist, and when he lifted, his shorts shifted just enough for her eyes to catch on the curve beneath.
He was big.
Not just tall. Not just strong.
Big.
Lily swallowed. Hard.
Heat touched her cheeks, and she turned away fast—too fast.
She said something to Riley. She wasn’t sure what.
It didn’t matter.
Her pulse was already dancing at her throat.
And somewhere deep in her belly, that flutter from earlier unfurled into something hotter.
It was going to be a long, complicated weekend.
——–
The fire crackled low, its light flickering across the trees in restless amber waves. It kissed Lily’s bare thighs, danced up the long lines of her legs, and flickered over her skin like it wanted to memorise every inch. She sat cross-legged in a low camp chair, a tin cup of wine dangling from one hand, the other draped carelessly over her knee. The remnants of the hike clung to her—sweat, warmth, the scent of pine still tangled in her skin.
She wasn’t obvious.
Not flashy. Not styled.
But the eye couldn’t help returning to her.
Her beauty had patience—the kind that waited for you to notice. And once you did, it refused to let go.
She was slim, built for motion—not sculpted, but shaped by movement. Yoga. Hikes. Stillness. Breath. A quiet grace lived in her posture, the way her limbs extended and folded like she belonged in the wild, barefoot and sun-warmed.
Her tank top clung to her ribs, worn thin from use, damp where the sweat hadn’t yet dried. It moulded to the soft curve of her chest—small breasts, high and firm, perfect beneath the cotton. No bra. No need. Her nipples were drawn tight from the cooling air, pressing subtly against the fabric, more suggestion than display.
Marcus noticed.
Her stomach was flat, with that singular, alluring line cutting down the centre—a mark of care, of discipline, of strength without hardness. Her hips narrowed, thighs long and smooth where the hem of her shorts barely held. Her ass curved like a secret, small and tight, more peach than hourglass—but perfectly held together, a little lift that whispered through the firelight.
And she moved constantly.
Not to seduce—but to exist.
Adjusting, shifting, tucking one leg, brushing her hair away—each motion casual, unaware, but magnetic.
Marcus noticed.
He noticed the curve of her ankle when it swung lazily. The way her collarbone caught the light. The dip at the base of her throat, where sweat still glistened like dew. The way her lips parted when she sipped her wine, just enough to make a man wonder what else might part like that.
She didn’t know what she was doing to him.
Or maybe she did.
Either way—Marcus watched. Silently. Carefully.
And every inch of her was beginning to feel like a test he already knew he’d fail.
She wasn’t looking at him.
Too busy laughing at something Riley said—something about river safety and tequila, her voice animated, hands gesturing in the air. But Marcus didn’t hear any of it.
He watched the firelight instead—watched it paint warm gold across the tops of Lily’s collarbones, along the graceful column of her neck. The soft flicker of shadow caught the edge of her jaw, her lashes, the pale skin at her inner wrist where the wine cup rested. Her ankle swung idly in the air, bare and elegant, like the rest of her had forgotten to be still.
Jake leaned over then, brushed something—an invisible thread, a leaf maybe—from her thigh. His fingers lingered a moment too long.
Marcus’s jaw didn’t move. But his eyes narrowed. Just enough to register.
Lily smiled at Jake—absentmindedly. Polite. Familiar. But something in it was missing.
Because her gaze drifted.
Just a flicker, just for a moment. But it moved.
And it landed.
Across the fire. On him.
Their eyes locked. One breath. Maybe two.
And something in her chest stumbled.
It wasn’t a stare. It wasn’t a come-on. It was something heavier. Thicker. That strange, dense silence between two people who shouldn’t be thinking what they’re thinking.
But are.
That pull she hadn’t invited.
That current she couldn’t shake.
——–
The morning mist hung low over the forest like a secret waiting to be told.
The river had changed overnight—its once-glassy surface now dark and restless, stirred by the memory of rain. It moved faster than it had the day before, curling around rocks and roots like it had someplace to be. And it wasn’t waiting for them.
They launched just after sunrise—two kayaks splitting the surface like blades. Gear packed tight. Spirits high. Jake and Riley in one. Marcus and Lily in the other.
It made sense. Riley was still groggy from tequila and poor sleep. Marcus was the experienced one. The strong one. The one you’d want at your back if something went wrong.
Lily had felt fine with the pairing—grateful, even. But now, as she settled into the kayak’s moulded seat, legs stretched out in front of her, paddle resting across her lap, a quiet knot pulled tight at the base of her ribs.
The current looked… different.
Faster.
Meaner.
She adjusted her sunglasses and stared downriver, chewing the inside of her cheek.
Then Marcus spoke—softly, just behind her.
“You nervous?”
His voice rolled low, smooth and quiet, like warm water slipping over stone.
“A little,” she admitted, forcing a small breathy laugh. “It looks fast. And loud.”
He didn’t answer right away. She heard him checking a strap behind her, adjusting gear, patient and unhurried.
Then:
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Lily blinked.
There was no bravado in his voice. No flirtation. Just certainty.
She turned slightly to look at him over her shoulder.
His eyes met hers—steady, unreadable—but present. Fully there. And she believed him.
She believed him more than she wanted to.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
Then they pushed off.
The kayak skimmed into the current, gliding through smooth bends and glassy narrows. Lily found a rhythm quickly—paddle, pause, glide. The air was crisp but pleasant. Her tank top was already damp with mist and effort, clinging to the line of her back and ribs. She could feel him behind her—not just the pull of his strokes, but the presence of him.
Solid. Unmoving.
The kind of man you don’t just sit near—you anchor to.
They moved deeper into the wild, the forest pressing tighter around the river. Birds scattered overhead. Shadows cooled the water’s surface. They spoke little, the silence comfortable—charged, but still.
Then came the bend.
The water began to shift—less gentle now, more coiled muscle than open stream. Marcus muttered behind her, voice suddenly alert:
“Tight turn. Stay low.”
She nodded. Adjusted.
Too late.
A jagged rock jutted from the shallows, hidden until the last second.
The kayak jolted sideways, then flipped—violently.
“Shit!” Lily gasped, and then the world turned to water.
It hit her like a slap from all sides. The cold was brutal—not brisk, not refreshing, but shocking, sharp as broken glass. Her lungs seized on instinct, locking her chest tight. For a terrifying second, her body forgot how to breathe. The river wasn’t just wet—it was ice, dragging, biting, punching the air from her like she’d fallen into another world.
Her paddle vanished.
Her sense of direction with it.
She twisted under the surface, arms flailing, heart hammering somewhere behind her ribs.
Then—light. Air.
She broke the surface, gasping, coughing violently, eyes wild. She tried to scream but only choked. Her limbs were numb and clumsy, as if her body didn’t belong to her anymore.
And then—arms.
Strong. Solid.
Marcus.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t hesitate. He was already kicking hard toward the riverbank, one hand gripping her like she was the only thing that mattered.
The drag of the current fought them, but he won.
When they finally hit mud and rocks, he heaved her up and out with raw strength. She collapsed on all fours, dripping, heart pounding like it wanted out of her chest.
Every part of her was soaked.
Her tank top clung to her like skin. Her shorts had moulded tighter, water pulling fabric against her thighs and ass like a second layer. She was shaking, lungs gulping air, arms trembling.
“You okay?” came his voice—low, calm, close.
She looked up, chest heaving.
He was bare-chested now—his shirt lost to the river. Water poured down his skin like oil over stone, glistening across every defined inch of muscle. His chest rose with heavy breath. His arms flexed with restraint.
And he was watching her.
Not panicked.
Assessing.
Like he was still protecting her—still holding her in place even now.
“I—I think so,” she managed, voice thin and raw.
But even through the shock and cold…
Something deep inside her stirred.
Because she hadn’t just felt the river’s power.
She’d felt his.
Marcus scanned the river, eyes sharp beneath wet lashes. No sign of Jake. No sign of Riley.
Then—far downstream, flickering through the mist—he saw it.
Their second kayak.
Upright. Moving.
“Hold on,” he muttered.
It bobbed into view for only a second, a flash of colour against the dark churn of the water—then disappeared again around a bend, swallowed by the trees.
“They’re alive,” Marcus said, breath tight but steady. “That was them.”
Lily nodded, but the rush of relief collided with the leftover panic in her chest. Her body was still reeling—shivering uncontrollably now, lips beginning to tremble, fingers struggling to obey her.
“Can they stop? Can they get back up here?” she asked, voice thin, breath hitching.
Marcus shook his head, already kneeling to retrieve the waterproof bag that had miraculously snagged on a root.
“No chance. They’ll be miles away before they can even think about getting to shore.”
She wiped soaked hair from her eyes. The wind lashed through the clearing, dragging the wet fabric of her clothes tighter against her body. Her tank top clung like a second skin, translucent in places. Her shorts offered no insulation. Her body was starting to go rigid with the cold—every breath harder to draw.
“What do we do?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself, voice barely holding together.
“There’s a ranger hut close by,” Marcus said, glancing toward the tree-line. “Just a few minutes up into the woods. If it’s still there, we get inside. Dry off. Warm up. Then tomorrow we work on a route to hike downriver.”
She stayed kneeling in the mud, water pooling around her knees, legs barely responding. Her body had gone pale beneath the flush of cold. Every movement felt like wading through syrup. The forest loomed around them, the wind needling her through wet fabric like the trees themselves were watching.
Then his voice—lower, closer, anchoring her.
“You trust me?”
She looked up.
He stood over her, shirtless and soaked, but still solid—like the storm hadn’t touched him. His eyes held steady on hers. Not soft, not hard—certain.
Lily nodded once, shivering.
“I do.”
——–
By the time they reached it, Lily couldn’t feel her fingers. Her lips had gone pale and numb. Even her breath came in hollow stutters, like her body had started to forget how warmth worked.
The ranger hut was tucked into a small dip in the trees, nearly swallowed by moss and time. Half-forgotten, half-feral. Its roof sagged slightly but held. The walls were weathered but upright. One crooked door leaned inward, creaking on rusted hinges like it hadn’t moved in years.
But it was shelter.
Marcus pushed it open with one shoulder, then reached back for her. She didn’t hesitate. She stepped inside and felt the silence swallow her whole.
The air inside was cold—but still. No wind, no spray. Just emptiness and space. A cast-iron stove sat crouched in the corner, flanked by a small supply bin. A narrow wooden bed frame rested against the far wall, stripped bare but intact, a thin, stained mattress laid across it like someone had once tried to make it liveable. The floor was covered in dust, leaves, and the occasional clawed-out mouse hole.
But to Lily, it looked like a palace.
Her legs buckled slightly beneath her. Marcus caught her arm before she could drop to her knees again.
“We have to get these clothes off,” he said.
His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It held that quiet, commanding certainty that made it clear: this wasn’t a suggestion.
She nodded before her mind even formed the thought.
Her whole body shook now—deep tremors, not surface shivers. Her tank top clung to her skin like a layer of ice. Her shorts were soaked straight through, heavy and cold, suctioned to her thighs and hips like they’d fused there.
There was no room for modesty. No space for shame.
Just survival.
Marcus peeled off his shirt without ceremony—it came away in a wet slap. He dropped it onto the floor and knelt near the stove, opening the survival bag they’d managed to save. His chest rose and fell with calm breath, his torso glistening with water and sweat and muscle—hard-earned, unshaken, male in the purest form. She tried not to look. She failed.
He pulled out a small emergency radio—its screen blinked weakly, but alive.
“Still works,” he said, checking the dial. “That’s something.”
He set it down and moved with purpose—clearing out debris, gathering bark and dried twigs from a battered bin tucked beneath the stove. Every motion was precise. Focused. Like his body only made movements that mattered.
Lily’s fingers fumbled at the hem of her shirt. They were so stiff she barely felt the fabric in her hands.
She peeled it away in slow, clumsy motions. It slapped to the floor in a wet heap. Her sports bra was worse—tighter, colder. She struggled with it, and without looking over, Marcus said simply:
“Let me.”
She froze.
He walked over, wordless. His hands were warm by comparison, rough and sure. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t leer. He slipped a thumb beneath the band and peeled it up and over her head in one practiced move.
She stood bare-chested before him, arms at her sides, breath catching in her throat.
Her nipples were tight from the cold, almost aching. Her skin was flushed in patches—goosebumps everywhere. But it wasn’t just the chill making her heart hammer.
It was him.
She looked up—met his eyes.
And he didn’t look away.
No smile. No apology. Just recognition.
Then he stepped back. Gave her space.
“Finish,” he said gently. “Then come stand by the fire. It’ll be up in no time.”
She reached for her shorts. They peeled down inch by inch, wet and unforgiving. Her underwear clung like a second skin, peeled slowly from between her thighs, and when she stepped out of them, she felt raw. Exposed.
Not just naked.
Unwrapped.
Instinctively, she placed one hand over herself—shyly, protectively—fingers covering the soft, neatly trimmed patch of hair above her sex. It did little to hide her, but it gave her the illusion of control. The tiniest shield in a moment that had already taken so much.
She stood there a moment, her skin prickling, breath shaky.
Then, slowly, she walked toward the stove, bare feet silent on the dusty floor, and waited for the heat—and for him.
He noticed as he worked, silent and steady, gathering tinder, striking a flint with smooth, practiced movements. He didn’t gawk. Didn’t comment. But his gaze lingered just long enough on the curve of her ass, the soft line of her stomach, the delicate sway of her breasts—small, proud, cold-peaked.
Then the fire sparked to life.
A flicker.
A breath.
Then heat.
It caught slowly, then spread—soft orange glow pulsing in the belly of the stove, warming the walls of the hut like a secret come to life.
Lily crouched in front of it, arms crossed tightly over her chest, knees drawn to her body. Her bare skin drank the heat greedily, thawing inch by inch. The burn wasn’t gentle—it stabbed into her like pins and needles as sensation returned. Still, her body trembled.
“You’re not warm enough yet,” came Marcus’s voice, low and calm.
She turned her head toward the sound.
And froze.
He was naked now.
Fully.
She didn’t breathe.
His skin, dark as polished obsidian, gleamed in the firelight—drops of river water still slipping down the ridges of his chest, over his abdomen, catching in the carved hollows of his hips. His body was a study in controlled power—shoulders rolled back, spine straight, every muscle defined but unforced. He looked like he’d been poured, not built—shaped by something older than time.
And then her eyes dropped.
And her thoughts unraveled.
It hung low between his thighs, impossibly long, thick as her wrist at least—no, more, she realised. A slow, swaying presence that refused to be ignored. Nine inches soft. Veins wrapped it like rivers in relief, visible even in rest. It moved with a kind of weight that didn’t seem fair. Like it carried its own gravity.
She blinked.
Swallowed.
Felt heat bloom across her chest that had nothing to do with the fire.
Soft, she thought, dazed. That’s… soft?
She didn’t want to compare.
She didn’t mean to.
But the image came uninvited.
Jake—hard, eager, trying—was barely half that.
And when it came to thickness… not even in the same solar system.
Marcus wasn’t just longer. He was… built to ruin.
Her legs pressed together, slow and tight, like her body was guarding something it secretly wanted to give away.
A rush of shame curled through her—but lower than that, deeper than guilt, something hungrier rose. Something primal. Female.
Her hand, still resting over her neatly trimmed mound, twitched.
The veins, the way they stood out, thick and raised like ropes beneath skin—she could already imagine them inside her. Not just filling her. Pressing. Dragging. Her inner walls stretching around them, not just touching but memorising them.
He shifted slightly, and the whole length gave a lazy sway.
She bit her lip.
Even if she wrapped one hand around it—no, even with both, there would still be inches left, thick and proud and pulsing.
A thought struck her with raw force: What does that even feel like… cumming?
She imagined it.
The pressure. The heat. That size—spurting, pumping, painting her insides in waves. Filling her. Flooding her. Marking her so completely that her body might never forget.
Her breath trembled.
And still, he hadn’t said a word.
He didn’t cover himself. Didn’t explain.
He just stood there—still, like the firelight had conjured him from stone. Not offering. Not apologising. Simply existing.
She tore her gaze away, eyes wide, skin flushed.
But the image of him—soft, huge, perfect—was already burned into her.
And deep down, some part of her knew:
That wasn’t the last time she’d stare.
Or reach.
Or beg.
Marcus crouched behind her, the floor creaking softly under his weight. Then—slowly, deliberately—his arms came around her, wrapping her in heat.
It hit her like a furnace.
His chest met her back—bare, solid, warm as the fire. His thighs settled against hers, long and thick, bracketing her body like he meant to shield her from the world. And then—
God.
She felt him.
Between her cheeks.
Not hard. Not even trying.
But undeniably there.
His cock lay heavy and warm against her backside, soft but massive, settling between her like it belonged there. Her eyes widened before she could stop herself. Her breath stuttered—sharp and shallow, like her lungs had forgotten what to do with heat that came from inside. Her nipples stood stiff and high, achingly sensitive, the firelight casting soft glints across their flushed peaks.
His hands slid gently down her arms, the scrape of calloused palms dragging goosebumps in their wake. He didn’t grope. Didn’t rush. Just held her, like she was fragile and precious and his responsibility.
“This okay?” he asked.
His voice—low, rough, felt at her ear more than heard.
She hesitated, just for a heartbeat.
Not because she was unsure.
But because she already knew what this moment meant.
“Yes,” she whispered.
The word came out like breath. Like truth.
Like surrender.
He didn’t speak again.
Didn’t need to.
He held her tighter, pressing her gently into him. One of his hands settled low on her stomach, broad and warm, fingers splayed like he was memorising the shape of her.
The fire crackled beside them, casting shadows that danced across the walls and across their skin. The warmth grew between them—but it wasn’t just from the flame.
Her body began to wake up.
Tingling.
Buzzing.
The burn of life returning to her skin gave way to something more. Something deeper. She became hyper-aware of every point of contact: his chest against her spine, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath, the thick weight of his cock resting against her ass—a thing that didn’t just exist, it announced itself.
She shifted—barely.
A brush of her hips. A reflex.
And he responded.
It thickened.
Not all at once. Not sharply.
Just… swelled.
Like the air had changed. Like her presence alone was enough to awaken something inside him.
Her breath caught in her throat.
And she realised—she wanted to move again. To feel it shift and grow. To see how much of him her body could provoke.
She didn’t dare. Not yet.
But her thighs tensed, her skin flushed, and she leaned back just slightly into him.
And he let her.
No words. No rush.
Just the sound of the fire.
The weight of heat.
And the pulse of something huge and patient pressed against her body—waiting.
He hadn’t meant to throb so dramatically.
Hadn’t shifted.
Hadn’t pushed.
But it was there now—growing, fuller, slower, thicker. Not demanding. Just… present. A silent, burning promise resting between them.
The heat of it pulsed against her, alive and steady.
And her body responded before her mind could argue—skin flushed, core clenching, breath turning shallow. Her thighs tensed around the ache building inside her, damp and warm, already betraying her.
Then, without speaking, she turned in his arms.
It wasn’t a decision.
It was gravity.
As if some part of her needed to escape the weight of him—while another part already knew she belonged in it.
Her skin peeled softly from his, the cold giving way to the soft glow of rising heat as she moved. She curled inward, naked and trembling, pressing her chest to his torso, her cheek settling against the broad, unyielding slab of his pec. Her arms wrapped around his waist instinctively—like she needed to anchor herself, to hold on to something real.
Her nipples dragged across his abs—firm, defined, hot beneath her. They were swollen, painfully sensitive, hard enough to feel the texture of every line, every groove. The contact made her exhale sharply, almost a sound.
And now—between her thighs—it lay different.
No longer caught between them.
Now it rested against her.
Thick. Warm. No longer soft. Not fully hard. Somewhere in that terrible, teasing space in between. Nestled high against her mound, the weight of him pressed along her pelvis, the crown of it brushing just above her clit.
And she felt it—pulsing. A beat that didn’t match her own.
His cock throbbed gently against her, and the pressure of it sent a slow ripple of heat into her belly, a promise of something she wasn’t sure she could handle.
Marcus didn’t speak at first.
He just held her.
One massive hand slid up the length of her spine, fingers spread wide, the other resting low across the small of her back—protective, grounding, his. She felt his breath at the top of her head. Steady. Controlled. Like nothing about this was new for him—like he knew exactly what to do with her.
Then, quietly, he spoke.
“I’ll keep you warm.”
A pause.
“I’ll keep you safe.”
Another beat. Closer now. His mouth near her ear.
“I’ll keep you alive.”
She should’ve pulled away.
Should’ve questioned it. Fought it. Said something to make it all stop.
She didn’t.
Instead, she sank into him.
Let her body melt into the wall of heat and muscle and pulse.
And when she exhaled—soft and slow—it was into his skin.
Because wrapped in his arms, held between his strength and his silence, she didn’t feel afraid.
She felt kept.
Even as every nerve in her body screamed with forbidden hunger.
——–
Then—crackkk.
A sharp burst of static split the air.
Both of them flinched.
The emergency radio on the table flickered to life, a weak green light blinking against the dark. Its speaker buzzed, broken and distant—then a voice came through the static.
“Lily? Marcus? You there?”
Jake.
Lily jerked out of Marcus’s arms like she’d been burned, breath caught in her throat, heart slamming against her ribs. She stumbled backward a step, then crossed the hut in three, grabbing the radio with shaking hands and pulling it tight to her chest.
“I—I’m here,” she said quickly. Her voice cracked, too high. “Jake, I hear you.”
Behind her, Marcus moved silently, settling beside the fire. She felt the absence of his body like the absence of breath—like stepping out into cold air again.
“Thank God,” Jake’s voice crackled, layered in distortion. “We’re safe. We made it to shore maybe ten miles downriver. Lost the boat, but Riley’s okay. You?”
Lily’s eyes flicked toward Marcus. He was calm, collected, feeding sticks into the fire like nothing had changed—like her heart wasn’t still trying to climb out of her throat.
“We’re okay,” she said. “We found a hut. It’s dry. The radio works. We’re… warming up.”
A pause. Then—
“Jesus,” Jake breathed. “Marcus?”
Marcus didn’t look up. But his voice came through steady. Quiet. Absolute.
“I’m here.”
Another beat.
“She’s safe,” he added. “I’ll keep her that way.”
Jake was silent for a moment. A longer one.
“We’ll try to hike back toward you in the morning,” he offered. “If we—”
“No,” Marcus said.
Not loud. Not sharp.
Just final.
“The terrain upriver’s too steep. Cliffs. Wet rock. You’ll waste energy or get hurt.”
Lily stared at him. He didn’t even glance her way.
“We’ll come to you,” Marcus continued, calmly adding another stick to the fire. “We need to rest. Warm up. Eat. When we move—we move right.”
The radio buzzed. Then Jake’s voice returned, softer, trying to sound steady.
“…Alright. Just—do what Marcus says, okay? Stay close to him. He knows what he’s doing. Let him… take care of you.”
Lily blinked.
The words slid through her like a blade wrapped in velvet.
“…Be safe, babe.”
She swallowed.
“I… love you,” Jake added.
Her stomach twisted.
“I love you too,” she said.
But it didn’t feel like love.
Not right there.
Not right now.
The radio crackled once more.
Then went silent.
Lily lowered the radio slowly.
The room felt smaller now.
Hotter.
Like the silence Marcus left behind had a weight of its own.
She stood there, naked and flushed, the cool edge of guilt slicing through her arousal like ice-water.
And yet…
She turned.
Marcus wasn’t watching her.
He was moving—smoothly, efficiently. Quiet strength in every step. Naked, unapologetically, until he reached for his soaked pants and pulled them on. They clung to the cut of his hips and thighs, wet fabric moulding around muscle and motion.
He knelt by the survival bag, pulled it open again, and retrieved a dented metal tin and a battered old mug. Then he paused at the door.
He glanced at her—just briefly—and gave the smallest nod.
“Stay close to the fire,” he said. “Keep your fingertips moving. Helps the blood return.”
A beat.
Then, the ghost of a smile—not full, but warm—touched his lips.
“I’ll be right back.”
Then he disappeared into the dusk.
She stood alone, the fire crackling at her side, the echo of his voice and heat still wrapped around her. Her arms curled around her stomach, not out of modesty—but to keep something in.
He returned minutes later, stepping back into the hut like the air belonged to him.
In one hand, he carried a pot filled with cold river water and a handful of fresh pine needles. In the other—dark berries cupped in his palm, and a single small apple.
His skin steamed in the cooler air. Droplets clung to his shoulders, sliding down his chest in shimmering trails. She couldn’t look at him and not feel something low and wrong and utterly magnetic.
He crouched by the stove again, dropped the pine into the pot, and set it to heat.
“Tea,” he said simply. “Vitamin C. Helps circulation.”
She nodded, saying nothing.
Then he passed her, brushing close enough that she felt the warmth of him. At the bed, he unfurled one of the tarps and stretched it over the wooden frame, tying off the corners. His forearms flexed with the motion, tendons standing out, his movements economical. Efficient.
A barrier from dirt. Nothing more.
It wouldn’t hold heat.
They’d have to do that themselves.
When he finished, he sat across from her by the fire and set the mug down beside her. Then the berries. Then the apple—split cleanly in his hands. He offered her half without a word.
She took it, fingers grazing his—just a brush.
The first bite was crisp, cold, sweet. Real.
She hadn’t realised how hungry she was.
“Good thing we ate last night,” he murmured. “Tomorrow we’ll need more.”
He bit his half slowly, chewing with eyes on the fire.
“I’ll forage in the morning. Berries. Nuts if we’re lucky. Might be able to trap a rabbit. Squirrel, maybe. Something we can cook.”
She nodded.
But she wasn’t thinking about food.
She was watching him—shirtless, still damp from the river, bare feet planted wide, mouth biting slowly into something he’d picked for them. Her body had stopped shivering. She was warmer. Safer. Fed.
And more drawn to him than ever.
——–
The fire had burned low.
Now just glowing coals—quiet, steady—casting a soft red breath across the wooden walls. Shadows flickered lazily, curling through the corners of the hut like smoke. The warmth had faded with the flames, slipping away into silence. Outside, the forest whispered in its sleep—distant wind, the hush of unseen things moving through the trees.
But inside, there was only the bed.
The narrow mattress. The thin tarp stretched tight over it.
And them.
Naked.
Lily lay curled on her side, facing the wall, her bare spine pressed flush to Marcus’s chest. His body blanketed hers—not aggressively, not caging—but there. Steady. Anchoring. One arm rested beneath her head, the other draped across her waist, warm and wide and so sure of itself.
His breath moved in slow rhythm against her shoulder—quiet. Even.
But nothing in her felt quiet anymore.
She felt everything.
The length of him moulded to her back—his thighs bracketing hers, his chest like a wall against her shoulder blades. Every inch of him felt designed to hold. To keep. To claim.
And lower…
Lower, there was no mistaking it.
Pressed against the curve of her ass—thick, hot, undeniably there—was the full weight of his cock. No softness now. No lazy sway or resting promise.
He was hard.
Fully.
And God.
She could feel its entire length. The pressure. The heat. The sheer stretch of him—pressing into the dip between her cheeks and her lower back like a challenge laid down in silence.
She didn’t dare look.
She didn’t need to.
It was unmistakable.
And still he said nothing.
Did nothing.
Just lay there, cock thick and pulsing, like his stillness wasn’t the filthiest thing she’d ever felt.
It rested against her with undeniable weight—curved slightly upward, the wide crown nudging just below the small of her back. She could feel the heat radiating off it. The pressure. The quiet promise behind its stillness.
And when her hips shifted—just a small adjustment for comfort—her body froze.
He was so much bigger now.
Fully erect.
Longer, thicker, harder than anything she’d ever imagined being inside her. Not even in her most private, shameful fantasies had she dreamed of something like this.
And still, he didn’t move.
Didn’t grind.
Didn’t thrust.
He just existed behind her—his cock a molten, unyielding brand against her skin. He left the choice to her. The space.
She didn’t take it.
Instead… she pressed back.
Just a little.
A test.
A surrender.
Her thighs parted—barely. Maybe without realising it. Just enough to cradle more of him. To invite the weight, the shape, the silent pressure that had begun to rule her breath.
He didn’t speak.
But his breath deepened. Slowed.
He was awake.
She stayed still. Her chest tight. Nipples drawn up and flushed against the air between them. Her skin remembered his earlier touch—the grip of his hands, the scrape of his palm, the sound of him. And lower, her body pulsed—slow, steady, slick.
Her thoughts spiralled.
Not away from him.
Toward.
Is it wrong if I don’t stop this?
If I let him hold me like this?
If I let myself imagine what it would feel like inside me?
Her pussy pulsed—slow and wet and ready. She hadn’t felt this in so long. Not even with Jake. This wasn’t simple lust. It was deeper. Hungrier. Inevitable.
She wanted to reach back.
To touch him.
To curl her hand around the base, and see how far her fingers could go before they failed. To feel the heat. The tension. The promise.
She didn’t.
But her fingers twitched.
And her thighs pressed together—not to stop the feeling.
To contain what was building.
Marcus’s arm shifted around her waist. Tighter. Just slightly.
Not possessive.
Not impatient.
Just present.
A quiet I know.
Her chest rose. Fell.
Again.
She closed her eyes.
“…Thank you,” she whispered, so soft she wasn’t even sure he’d heard it. “I feel… safe.”
His arm around her waist tightened. Just slightly.
A pause.
Then—
“Good.”
One word. Warm. Low. Final.
And when sleep finally came, it didn’t drift in.
It drenched her—pulling her into darkness thick with heat and skin and sounds she hadn’t yet heard but already needed. Her last thought wasn’t a thought at all—it was a picture.
Marcus, above her.
Massive.
Moving.
His cock stretching her open, slow and steady, sliding through slickness with merciless patience. Her hands gripping his shoulders. Her head thrown back. Her voice breaking.
She could feel the fullness. The push. The impossible depth.
And even as she imagined him bottoming out—stuffed inside her with no more space to give—her dream-self was moaning, sobbing, begging.
More.
Always more.
——–
Lily woke to the soft, orange glow of dawn filtering through the cracks in the hut’s wooden walls. A pale hush hung in the air—foggy, still, the kind of morning that barely breathed.
The fire had burned low. Only the faintest embers remained, their light casting a weak orange flicker across the floor. The warmth didn’t reach her.
She was bare against the tarp.
And cold.
But not just from the air.
The first thing she noticed was the space behind her—empty now. No Marcus. No heat. Just her body, curled and exposed, cooling too quickly without the weight that had kept her safe. Kept her still.
The second thing she noticed…
Was the sensation.
Between her thighs.
Thick. Warm. Sticky.
She shifted slightly and gasped—quiet and startled—as a tender ache bloomed low in her hips. Her breath caught. Her legs adjusted again, and the memory rushed back all at once.
Him.
His cock. That cock.
Hard behind her for hours. Pulsing against her. Alive.
She hadn’t dared move. But her body had done it for her—arching, flexing, pressing back. She’d nestled against him like she needed it. And maybe she had.
She swallowed. Her core was still wet. Still pulsing.
A shameful little moan escaped her—low, caught in her throat—as her fingers brushed her inner thigh and caught the evidence.
Jesus.
She sat up slowly, breath shallow, nipples tightening in the cold air. Her skin tingled where the heat had been hours ago. The tarp felt too thin. Too exposed. Too alone.
She looked toward the door.
It was cracked open, letting in a pale strip of morning.
Marcus was gone.
But not far.
She could feel that, too.
Through a narrow crack in the wood, she saw him—outside in the pale morning light, crouched low beside a fallen log.
Shirtless.
Always shirtless, thank God.
His back glistened beneath a fine sheen of sweat, the early mist curling around his frame. Muscles shifted beneath skin the colour of rich earth, smooth and taut, every motion slow and precise as he worked.
He was building something.
A trap.
Thin branches bent between his fingers, tension wound into the arc. A stone in one hand. A loop of cord in the other—a shoelace. Pulled tight. Twisted. Set. Every movement was practiced, methodical.
He moved like a man who’d done this a hundred times before.
Focused.
Silent.
Dangerous—but in that quiet, primal way that didn’t ask permission.
And Lily… couldn’t look away.
There was no pretending anymore.
She wasn’t just attracted to Marcus. She wasn’t just fascinated.
She was drawn to him.
Like iron to magnet.
Like instinct to fire.
There was a weight to his presence—a gravity she felt in her bones. He didn’t look for her attention. Didn’t perform. Didn’t care.
And somehow, that made her want to give him everything.
Her nipples tightened, rising under the cool air as she stared. Her breath shallowed. Her hand moved lightly to her stomach, then lower. Not far. Just resting.
She imagined his hands there.
His mouth.
The weight of him above her. The length of him inside her.
The memory of his cock—the way it had rested against her through the night—made her legs tense. That throb between her thighs returned, insistent and full.
As if it belonged there.
As if it would always belong there.
She swallowed, pulling in a shaky breath. Then stood.
No clothes. No shame.
The air bit at her skin, but she barely noticed. She crossed the room with slow steps, bent low beside the hearth, and stoked the embers with a stick. Coaxing warmth. Filling space. Trying to keep her hands busy.
Her body already knew what it wanted.
The fire was just an excuse.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open.
Marcus stepped inside—silent, barefoot, the morning mist still clinging to his skin. A handful of berries in one hand. A dented metal canteen in the other.
His eyes moved over her slowly—not hungrily, not surprised. Just present. Acknowledging.
She didn’t cover herself. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pretend to be anything but there—naked, warm from the fire, fully in his gaze.
He handed her the berries without a word.
“Water?” he asked, voice rough with sleep, warm as embers.
She nodded.
He uncapped the canteen, passed it to her. Their fingers brushed—barely a touch, just skin on skin—but it lit something. Her stomach fluttered, low and fast. Her thighs pressed together without thought.
He noticed. Said nothing.
“I set a trap just off the clearing,” he said. “We’ll check it later. I’ll go back out once the sun’s higher.”
“Okay,” she murmured, chewing a berry. Tart. Sharp. Sweet. Grounding—but only just.
He crouched at the fire, adding twigs with quiet precision. Then he leaned in and blew gently across the embers. The flame stirred, then caught—casting gold up his chest, along the curve of his jaw, the ridges of muscle moving under smooth, dark skin.
She sat down beside him. Still naked. Still quiet. Still watching him work.
After a moment, he turned slightly toward her. His hand lifted—slow, unhurried—and his fingers brushed across the slope of her shoulder.
Not a move. Not a signal.
Just warmth.
“You slept?” he asked, voice soft now, threaded with quiet care.
The touch sent a ripple through her—goosebumps rising instantly in his wake. Her skin tingled where his fingers had passed. Her breath stammered. Her body felt remembered.
She hesitated. “Eventually.”
He gave a soft grunt—something between a reply and a breath—but his fingers lingered for a second longer before dropping. Back to the fire. Back to the task.
But the warmth he left behind stayed.
She looked into the flame. But her thoughts wouldn’t settle. She wanted to ask him if he’d been hard all night on purpose. If he’d felt her moving against him. If he’d waited for her to turn around, to take him.
If he was still waiting now.
She didn’t ask.
She just stayed close. Let her thigh rest against his. Let the silence stretch.
And she ached.
The fire crackled low behind them as Marcus rose to his feet, his movements fluid, effortless. The pale morning light caught him in streaks—casting long shadows down the lines of his body, turning muscle into marble, motion into art.
His torso stretched like something carved and warmed by fire, sculpted but alive. Calm. Controlled. Quietly dangerous.
Lily watched from her place near the hearth, legs tucked under her, the curve of her thigh pressed to the floor. Her skin had warmed, but the ache beneath it lingered. A slow, steady thrum that hadn’t left since the night before.
She was fed. Safe. Whole.
And still raw with unspoken heat.
“You’ve still got mud on you,” Marcus said, his voice cutting softly through the hush.
She blinked. “What?”
He didn’t look at her—just nodded slightly in her direction. “There. Your hip. Leg. A little on your arm. Probably more in your hair.”
Lily glanced down. He was right—faint streaks of dried river mud clung to her outer thigh, a pale smear across her ribs, dusting her ankle. Her skin prickled beneath the memory of it. The scrape of riverbed stones. The tangle of cold. The warmth that had followed.
Her hand lifted to her hair, heavy and snarled with dried pine and sand. She winced slightly.
“The river’s just past the clearing,” Marcus added, grabbing the canteen. “Cold, but clean.”
She didn’t speak.
She just stood.
No effort to cover herself. No modesty left between them. She brushed her hands down her thighs out of habit and followed him, bare feet soundless against the wooden floor.
Still nude.
Still flushed.
And still helpless to stop her eyes from drifting downward—to the slow, easy sway of him as he moved through the trees ahead.
Even soft, his cock moved with weight. Like it obeyed its own gravity.
Sunlight broke through the canopy above in soft shafts, catching dust and dew midair. The woods whispered around them, quieter now, gentler. The river’s sound met them before they saw it—low and rhythmic. Calmer. Inviting.
And then they were there.
At the edge of it.
The water slid past polished stones and reeds, a soft, endless hush—like breath against skin.
She stood at its edge, naked and suddenly aware of everything again. The way the wind touched her. The way her body felt alive in the open air.
And Marcus beside her. Still shirtless. Still sure.
Still the one thing her body hadn’t stopped wanting since it first touched his.
Marcus stepped into the shallows first.
The water surged around his legs, creeping past his shins, then his thighs. He didn’t flinch, though the cold clenched against him. His jaw set. His breath slowed.
He moved like the river answered to him.
Lily followed.
The shock hit her ankles like ice.
“Fuck—it’s freezing.”
“You’ll adjust,” he murmured. The water reached his waist now, dark and glassy as it broke around his torso. Droplets slid down his chest, catching the morning sun like scattered jewels.
She waded deeper, breath stuttering. The water licked up her thighs, across her belly, over her chest. Her nipples tightened—yes, from the cold, but also from the way his eyes found her through the steam rising from the surface.
“Come here,” he said, and reached for her hand. “Hold onto me.”
She did. She always did.
“Turn around.”
The words were quiet. Not commanding. Just… steady.
She turned without speaking.
And then he was behind her.
Not touching. Not yet.
Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin even through the cold.
His hands dipped into the water, then rose—cupping it, pouring it gently down her back.
Then again. And again.
And then… his touch.
It started at her shoulders. Slow. Methodical. He didn’t rush, didn’t graze her like she was fragile. He touched her like she was real. Something to be cared for. Cleaned. Kept.
His palms dragged softly over the blades of her back, down the ridges of her spine. He circled the dip at her waist, followed the line of her ribs, then swept lower—across the swell of her hips, over the faint traces of dried mud.
He didn’t linger.
Didn’t tease.
But every pass of his fingers burned her deeper than anything that came before.
She closed her eyes.
Jake had washed her before. But not like this.
Jake made it a task. Marcus made it a ritual.
His hand cupped her hair next, gentle but sure, soaking the tangles. His fingers combed through with careful patience. Every scrape of his nails against her scalp sent a ripple of sensation spiralling down her body.
She shivered—not from cold.
From him.
“Lean back,” he said softly, his voice a velvet pull at her ear.
She obeyed.
His hand cradled the base of her neck, guiding her, steadying her as she tilted into the current. Water rushed over her hair, down her face, along her chest. His grip never wavered.
When she rose again, gasping slightly, the water poured off her in clear sheets.
Her nipples were peaked, her thighs trembling. Her skin gleamed.
She didn’t feel dirty anymore.
She felt… stripped.
Then—his hands again.
He found her arms. Washed slowly down each one. Then her legs. He crouched behind her in the shallows, hands sliding over her calves, the backs of her knees, the arches of her feet.
She bit her lip.
And then… higher.
His hands slowed as they reached the inside of her thighs. He didn’t touch her sex. Didn’t push.
But his thumbs hovered just shy of it, brushing the most sensitive skin with the gentlest drag.
Her breath caught.
A flutter. A low hum deep in her gut.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t stop him.
And he didn’t go further.
He just held her there for a moment longer than he should have.
Long enough to let her feel everything he wasn’t doing.
Long enough to let her ache for what he could.
Then his hands slipped away.
She turned her head slightly, eyes still closed, mouth just parted.
She didn’t say it.
But she wanted to.
Please.
Then he stood.
Water rolled down his body, tracing the deep grooves of his chest, his abs, the power in his thighs. He moved slowly, towering over her, steam rising from his skin like breath.
Lily turned.
Her gaze fell low.
His cock hung between his legs, thick and full, not yet hard—but full of threat. Of promise. It swung slightly as he stepped, heavy with potential, veins slick with water.
She swallowed. Her pulse roared in her ears.
Then he reached for the water, dipping his hands, starting to wash himself.
Something twisted in her chest.
No.
Not this.
Not today.
“Let me,” she said softly.
He paused.
His eyes found hers—dark, unwavering.
And then… he let his hands fall.
She stepped closer. Close enough to feel his body heat warming the river chill. Close enough to see every drop clinging to his skin. Her palms lifted—tentative at first—but steadying the moment they touched his chest.
She needed this.
For him.
For herself.
To show him—and to feel—what he’d become to her.
Her fingers moved slowly over the broad planes of his chest, dragging water and mud away with reverence. Every line of him was real, dense, alive beneath her touch. He didn’t breathe louder. Didn’t flex for her. He just stood there, letting her learn him.
Her palms slid across his collarbones, down the swell of his pecs. She felt his heart beating beneath her fingertips—strong. Steady. But her own stuttered.
Her hands moved lower, over his ribs, his obliques, the ridged stone of his abs.
So close now.
Her thumb passed the top of his pelvis. Her pinkie brushed the edge of his hip bone.
God.
He was beautiful.
Built.
And the heat radiating from his cock was unmistakable now—so close she could feel its gravity pulling her in. She didn’t touch it. Not yet.
But her hands circled it. Her fingers traveled the space around it, along the roots of his thighs, the base of his pelvis, just enough to make her ache. And when her knuckles grazed the thick, pulsing skin of his shaft—just barely—she bit her lip without thinking.
She tasted herself. Want. Heat.
She didn’t speak.
She just looked up at him.
He hadn’t moved. Not a muscle. His gaze never left her—dark, quiet, burning. Not asking. Not begging.
Just… there. Letting her see what she was doing to him. Letting her decide.
And in that moment, Lily knew:
She was already his.
Then, with a shiver, she turned.
“We should get warm.”
His voice came low. Rough. Hoarse from something deeper than the cold. “Yeah.”
They walked back in silence—wet, flushed, naked—leaving the river behind them like a secret.
The hut was quiet when they returned. Still. The fire had caught again, its glow steady now, painting soft gold across the walls and floor. Lily stepped inside first, arms wrapped loosely around herself, chilled air clinging to her damp skin.
Her nipples were peaked, her thighs still slick, her breath barely steady.
Marcus followed—silent, grounded, a wall of heat at her back.
She moved toward the fire, letting its warmth reach for her. Her skin prickled as it met the air, droplets drying slowly on her bare shoulders, her legs, the small of her back.
Then—his presence. Closer now.
He came up behind her.
Not demanding. Not rushing.
Just there.
His hands found her arms first. Warm, wide palms brushing slowly from shoulder to elbow, coaxing heat back into her skin. Then higher—across her shoulders, up the back of her neck. Down again, lower now.
Lower.
Each pass lingered a little longer.
He rubbed small, steady circles along her spine, and she inhaled—sharp at first, then softer as her body began to melt. She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
He pressed his palm into the small of her back. Just enough pressure to ground her. To claim nothing, but offer everything.
Then—his fingertips brushed the top of her ass.
Not low. Not crude.
But real.
And her body responded like he’d touched someplace sacred.
She stilled.
His hand didn’t move. Didn’t slip. Just stayed—resting there with a quiet certainty, thumb drawing a slow, unspoken rhythm against her skin.
She exhaled—trembling now, but not from cold.
Her head dipped forward slightly.
And then… she leaned back into him.
Marcus caught her easily. Held her against his chest like she was something fragile, but his grip told her the truth.
He wasn’t going to let her fall.
His cock brushed her lower back—warm, heavy, not quite hard, but present. There. Waiting.
She didn’t pull away.
Didn’t tense.
Didn’t flinch.
She let herself feel it.
The weight of him. The heat. The restraint.
They stood like that in silence—her bare skin against his, firelight flickering across the shapes of their bodies, the scent of pine smoke and river water still clinging to their hair.
And they both knew.
Tonight, she wouldn’t just lean back.
Tonight, she’d open.
She’d let him in.
